The pressure of the shrinking timeline landed squarely on Corporal First Class Miller, Deacon's S-7 Engineering Chief, and the defense of the southern wall. The Goblins, Major Kiley's intelligence suggested, would hit the weakest point—the river gate—in less than forty-eight hours.
Deacon arrived at the southern wall at high noon, the sun beating down on the bustling, chaotic scene. The air near the river was a thick, volatile mix of damp earth, river stench, and the overpowering, sulfuric smell of the freshly packed waste berm at the wall's base.
Miller, stripped to the waist and covered in the gray-brown slurry of his makeshift mortar, was barking orders at a team of laborers. He was focused, disciplined, and clearly suffering. His new body was not accustomed to this physical strain, but his soldier's will drove him.
"The mortar cures well, SFC Hayes," Miller reported, his voice raspy, gesturing to a section of stone that had been sealed with the rough, hydraulic cement. "It's solid. No freezing will touch this. But the laborers are slow. They won't touch the berm unless I'm right behind them."
The Siege Berm and Superstition
The berm was Deacon's most crucial, low-tech defense: a massive, sloped pile of packed dirt, stone rubble, and animal/human waste, buttressing the weak wall and preventing tunneling. It was also Oakhaven's greatest source of public revulsion.
As Miller spoke, an angry knot of townsfolk gathered, led by a local priest, Father Marius, a portly man whose face was twisted in disgust.
"Lord Cassian! This is an abomination!" Marius cried, pointing a trembling finger at the steaming mound of earth and refuse. "You desecrate the land! The Goblins are a curse from the gods, and you meet them with filth! This berm will invite the plague!"
The laborers stopped working, crossing themselves nervously and nodding along with the priest. They believed the waste was inherently sinful and would invite divine wrath—or disease.
Deacon knew he couldn't explain the principles of soil compaction and anti-tunneling engineering. He had to pivot from science to superstition and discipline.
He stepped down from the platform, walking directly into the foul-smelling berm. He picked up a handful of the manure-laced earth and held it out to the priest.
"Father Marius. Do you believe in the power of the will of the Castellan?"
"I believe in the will of the Divine!" Marius countered, recoiling from the dirt.
"Then understand this," Deacon said, pitching his voice to carry to every laborer. "This is not filth. This is Oakhaven's resolve. The Goblins are beasts of the forest. They fear civilization. They fear the things that men have tamed and controlled—even their own waste."
He tossed the dirt aside. "This mound is packed with the strength of every man, woman, and child in this city. It is a spell against the tunnels the Goblins will dig. The scent is a warning, not a curse! It tells the Goblins that Oakhaven is so strong, we can turn our own waste into armor!"
He fixed his gaze on Miller and his laborers. .
"Any man or woman who fears the scent of their own city is a coward who will doom his neighbor! Corporal Miller, you will ensure this berm is packed to maximum density. If I see anyone standing idle, I will assume they are agents of the Goblins who wish to see Oakhaven fall, and they will be punished as such!"
The blend of military authority and the fear of supernatural sabotage worked. The laborers, terrified of being labeled spies or cowards, silently returned to their shovels. Father Marius, unable to counter the logic of divine strength derived from communal effort, backed down, sputtering about ritual cleansing.
Stress and S-7 Deployment
With the immediate crisis contained, Deacon pulled Miller aside. "Good job, Corporal. You managed the labor and the superstition. But you need to rest. I need you functional in 24 hours."
"I can't, Sir," Miller said, wiping sweat and mortar from his face. "We are short on sandbags. The berm needs more stability on the edges, and the militia needs them for cover points. I can't explain the concept to the Mason—he keeps giving me brittle wool bags."
Deacon nodded. Modern "sandbags" require specific density and material that medieval wool can't provide.
"The S-4 pipeline is active," Deacon confirmed. "I'm putting in an emergency acquisition. Ruiz will secure heavy canvas, hides, and rope. We need about three hundred bags of earth, sealed with pitch, for the front lines. You will oversee the construction tomorrow morning. Do not sleep yet, Corporal. The Major needs you."
Miller's face twisted in apprehension. "The Major? Dr. Kelly, Sir?"
"Yes. You are a combat engineer. He needs you to consult on a structural issue in his dispensary, specifically regarding a quiet room in the back. Your cover is an 'expert carpenter' helping with the structural supports. The actual mission is a rendezvous with Major Kiley. You will pass him the latest S-7 specifications and receive tactical orders from him directly. Understand?"
Miller's eyes widened slightly at the risk—a two-man meeting was dangerous—but he nodded sharply. "Understood, SFC Hayes. Rendezvous at the doctor's house, cover: carpenter, mission: exchange intel."
The Cost of the Acquisition
Deacon left Miller, satisfied that the physical defense of the southern wall was on track, thanks to his engineer's resilience.
However, the cost of the acquisition pipeline became immediately apparent. As Deacon rode back, a runner from Specialist Ruiz intercepted him:
"My Lord! Master Brandt says the acquisition of the 'strong water' is done, but the cost was high. The Widow Elms, whose estate supplied the chamber pots, demanded an exorbitant price—she requires Lord Cassian to formally grant her a tax exemption for the next three years."
Ruiz had successfully acquired the strong, corrosive urine needed for Blake's initiators, but had traded away future municipal income for it.
Deacon cursed under his breath. Ruiz had run a successful mission, but every covert acquisition was bleeding Oakhaven's resources. He had to accept the deal. The promise of gunpowder was worth three years of taxes.
He wrote the exemption immediately and sent it back with the runner. He looked toward the Blackwood Forest, the looming threat now less than forty-eight hours away. Every man was in position, every resource was depleted, and every civilian was convinced their Lord was either a genius or a madman.
There was no turning back now.